Never Die Alone

His heart melted at the sight of his sleeping child, tiny head resting on her mother’s breast.

“Hey.” He met his wife’s sleepy eyes. “What about our vow to let sleeping kids lie?”

Dressed in oversized pajamas, her own hair a crown of wild curls, Olivia didn’t crack a smile. “I took that oath when I thought there was a chance our daughter might actually get to see her father once in a while.”

“Oooh. Low blow.”

“Not low enough,” she muttered, and rounded the desk to perch on the extension that had once housed a typewriter. With a glance at the computer screen and a view of the photo of Laney Springer’s corpse, Olivia scowled.

“Nice,” she said. “Healthy environment for our daughter to grow up in, don’t you think?”

He clicked off the monitor. “You knew I was a homicide cop,” he said, touching her knee. “If you don’t remember, that’s how we met.”

“Oh, I remember.” A little smile toyed at her lips and she met his gaze with the gorgeous round eyes that had seen into a killer’s mind. “Like it was yesterday.” She handed the baby off to him. “And it’s not a good thing.”

“Our meeting?”

“The circumstances of it.” Cradling his child against him, he felt the ruffle of Gi

“I know it bothers you—”

“A lot,” she responded quickly.

“Okay, I get it. Really. But this is my job for now. And I can’t just turn my back on my cases. You know that. And come on, how would you have felt if I’d ignored you when you came storming into my office, ranting and raving about seeing women as they were being murdered?”

She winced at the memory. “I know.”

“Look, if I hadn’t followed my gut, if I hadn’t believed in you and tried to help you, a murderer might still be stalking the streets of New Orleans.”

“Another murderer,” she corrected.

“Yeah, another one.”

“I know your job’s important. Don’t get me wrong. But you’ve done it a long time.” She let out a sigh through her nose. “Let someone else do it. There are other cops at the department. Younger cops.”

“They have families, too.” His daughter nestled closer to him, and he felt her soft breath against the base of his neck.

“Are you going to try and make me feel guilty for wanting you to be around to watch your daughter grow up?” Olivia cocked her head to look at him more closely. “Is that what you’re trying to do? Because it won’t work.”

“It’s my—”

“Yeah, I know. You’ve already said. But think about it. You’ve got enough years in. You could retire.”

He thought for a second. The same old arguments played through his head. “I’m not even fifty.”

“I’m not saying quit working, I’m just saying change jobs. Do consulting. Become a PI. Go back to school. Teach. Whatever.” She threw up a hand. “Just something less dangerous. Okay?” Little worry lines appeared between her eyebrows. “I’d like you to see Gi

“Not the first female president of the United States?”

“Hopefully by then, the second or third woman who’s been elected, but, sure, Gi

He chuckled and the baby reacted, startled a bit, but didn’t wake. “Lofty aspirations, Mom.” He pressed his lips to Gi

“Don’t be obtuse. You know what I mean. Your job is dangerous. Dear God, I almost lost you a few years back.”

“True.” Didn’t his leg still bother him, a constant reminder? He was suddenly stone-cold serious. “And I’ve nearly lost both you and Kristi.” A muscle worked in his jaw as he replayed the horror he’d felt knowing those who were dearest to him were at the mercy of monsters, psychos seeking revenge. “More than once.”

They stared at each other. Silently. Didn’t state the obvious, what they were both thinking: Bentz’s profession could potentially put their precious, i

Bentz hunted the monsters.

And he attracted them.

Involuntarily his arms tightened around his daughter, and Gi

“Let Montoya handle the cases. He can partner up with . . . Ly

In his mind’s eye Bentz thought about the younger junior detective. Zaroster was a little green, but eager and smart. Then there was Brinkman, past middle age and repellant. A decent-enough cop, Brinkman got the job done, but was a foulmouthed misogynist whose off-color jokes and offensive remarks cost him several wives and brought him few friends, rebukes from the brass, and disdain from his colleagues.

“If he ended up with Brinkman, Montoya would cut my retirement short by personally shooting me.”

“See what I mean? All this violence!”

“I was just kidding.”

“But that”—she pointed at the now-blank monitor—“that’s no joke.”

“No, it’s not,” he admitted. “But this is someone I need to put away.”

“You mean 21?”

He nodded.

“And the other one? The reason why you’re listening to psychobabble in the middle of the night? Father John. I suppose he’s another one you need to lock up.”

“Yes, two of the worst I’ve dealt with. It’s a personal thing with me. Both slipped through my fingers. Well, I thought 21 was behind bars, but I have to be sure. These guys, they’re bad men, and I want to make certain both of them are locked away forever.”

“It’s your personal mission?”

“I guess so. Yeah.”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head, blond curls dancing around her face. “When will it ever end? No, don’t answer that because you don’t know. No one does. And that end I’m asking about? It could be bad, Rick. For all of us.”

In his arms the baby stretched, her nearly nonexistent neck straightening, her little chin pointing upward for a second before she burrowed against him again. He knew Olivia was right. He could never do anything to put this precious child in danger. Nothing was worth that.

Not even his damned job.

CHAPTER 18

Sitting on the edge of the bed in her one-room apartment, Tiffany Elite waited. She checked her watch.

He was late.

Great.

Face it, he might not show.

That would really piss her off.

She crossed to the front window, pushed aside the curtain, and looked past the bars. Her apartment was located half a block from Chartres and just enough outside the French Quarter to be affordable, but easy enough for her clients to locate. The place was a bit of a dive, but the good thing about it was the manager turned a blind eye to the happenings within the old building. In return, the occupants didn’t complain too much about dripping faucets or a rat or two that scurried around the corners of the crumbling brick and mortar apartment house. Well, except for Mrs. Kowalski. That old hag bitched about everything from her high electric bill, to the street noise, to a toilet that wouldn’t quit ru

Her A/C was on the blink again, and the first-floor unit got a little stuffy. She opened the window over the sink in the area that was the designated kitchen, barely more than a closet with a hot plate and microwave sufficing as the stove, and a refrigerator that couldn’t hold much more than a quart of milk. Not that she cooked much anyway. In Tiffany’s opinion, culinary skills were highly overrated.